by Dale Brown
The Russian threw something down on the floor. It was the bottom third of his ear.
“Deliver that to your friends in Moscow.”
80
Boston—Monday afternoon
Louis Massina stared out the window. Hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d climbed out the small opening and made his way along the ledge to the roof.
A ledge that now looked incredibly, harrowingly small in the daylight. And very slippery.
Lunacy. Or survival instinct.
That wasn’t going to happen again. He was never going to feel unsafe in his own building, let alone his office.
He’d already decided that he was going to keep the glass wall. The engineers had assured him they could replace the front with glass thick enough to be bullet- and shatterproof. Anything less would be giving in.
People working on Sunday. He would discourage it for most.
“Mr. Givens is ready,” said his assistant on the intercom.
“Send him in.”
Johnny Givens strode into the office, a big grin on his face. It would have been difficult for anyone who didn’t know him to realize that he was walking on two artificial legs.
“I finished all the paperwork,” said Givens.
“Have a seat.” Massina watched him fold himself into the chair. Simply recovering from his accident in such a short time was remarkable; there was much more here, much more.
Not Superman, not Frankenstein, but . . .
If you can do this with someone from a car accident, what else can you do? It is godlike, however blasphemous that may be.
“You’re not tired from last night?” Massina asked.
“A little, maybe. Because I didn’t have much sleep.”
“I talked to Jenkins and your personnel office at the FBI,” Massina told him. “They may be willing to keep you on at the Bureau, at your old job.”
“I don’t want that. I just did all the paperwork to work here.”
“A federal job does have its benefits.”
“So does this one. And it pays better. I’ve seen some of what you do,” said Givens. “I want to be involved. And this heart and legs—this is pretty special.”
“It is. There are downsides.”
“I know that.”
“The job is boring,” warned Massina. “Mostly, you’ll be a guard.”
“Are you rescinding your offer?” asked Givens.
“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” said Massina.
“Mr. Bozzone and I talked about it. I’m sure I’ll do fine.”
“Good, then.” Massina went around the desk and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
“Roger”—Test Robt RG/65-A—was a small bot constructed to look something like a miniature spaceman. His “hands” could manipulate objects and had optical sensors that were ten times as powerful as human eyes. But his function at Smart Metal was to test different AI learning routines and their relationship to chip design; in other words, help the scientists discover what processor and memory architectures were the best for learning.
Chelsea, who was leading the programming team, had invited Borya, their new intern, to witness the afternoon’s test.
“What we’re going to do now is a variation of the Three Kings test,” Chelsea told Borya as she finished going over the robot’s vital signs. “Do you know what the test is?”
Borya shook her head.
“It’s kind of a classic induction logic test. It comes from this story: There are three wise men or kings. Each is given a hat, either black or white. They can’t talk to each other, but they have to figure out what color hat they are wearing. They can’t see their hats, but they’re told that there is at least one of each color. So you ask the first king what color hat he is wearing. If he says he doesn’t know, then the next king should be able to answer, right?”
“Because he saw black and white, right?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not much of a test.”
“Not for you. But let’s see what the robot does.”
Chelsea had placed three white balls in three boxes in front of the robot.
“Roger, wake up,” she said, walking to the bot.
The robot raised itself on its four legs.
“I have placed a black or white ball in the boxes in front of you,” she told it. “Open two boxes, and determine the color of the third ball. There is at least one ball of each color.”
The robot immediately moved to the first box.
“Chelsea,” hissed Borya. “You made a mistake in the instructions.”
Chelsea put her finger to her mouth, shushing her.
The robot opened the box, examined the white ball, then moved to the second.
“The third ball is black,” it declared.
“Why do you say that?” asked Chelsea.
“By logic. One ball must be black. Two white balls have been discovered.”
“Open the third box.”
Roger moved to the box and opened it.
“I have been mis-instructed,” said the robot. “This ball is white.”
Chelsea brought out three more boxes and set them down.
“Roger, same instructions as before.”
The robot opened two boxes, then stopped. “I do not know what color the third ball is.”
“Why?” asked Chelsea.
“Because the instructions may be faulty, as they were before.”
“Good. Roger, sleep mode.”
The robot settled down onto all fours.
“Did it pass the test?” asked Borya.
“So far.”
“Was the idea to see if it would use logic?”
“Partly it was to see if it would use the results of what it had learned to draw a conclusion and act on it a second time,” said Chelsea. “As it did that—and for us this was the important part—we recorded what was going on in its processing chips. We’ll compare all of that to a different version of its brain. Because we want to see what the best construction of the brain is. Is it just size?”
“The bigger the computer, right?”
“Well, humans don’t have the biggest brains on the planet, but they’re the smartest mammal.”
“Some are pretty dumb,” said Borya.
Chelsea laughed.
“So what’s next?” asked Borya.
“What’s next for you is homework,” said Chelsea. “Which means it’s time for you to go home.”
“Come on. This was just getting good.”
“Those are the rules. I’ll walk you out.”
“My dad still hasn’t called,” said Borya as they waited for the elevator. “The FBI guy told Beefy there’s nothing new.”
“Are you worried?” asked Chelsea.
“A little . . . A lot.”
“Mr. Jenkins is trying to get him to call,” Chelsea told her. “I’m sure he’s OK.”
“He doesn’t like him.”
“Jenkins? Why do you say that?”
“I can tell. He has that look.”
“So, that’s it, though, we just watch the kid?” Johnny asked Bozzone. “Were there threats?”
“No. But Lou’s worried, since there was a mafya connection. And the father has missed his calls to her. Two and two, right.”
“Sucks for the kid.”
“Yeah, well, just remember she was smart enough to run the ATM scam. I have it in four-hour shifts. Watch her. She’s, uh, a free spirit.”
“I saw.”
“Chelsea’s waiting with her in the lobby. When you get her home, don’t let her take her bike out. You’ll never keep up.”
Actually, Johnny thought he could. “Are we walking?”
“Take our pickup.” Bozzone pointed to the keys on the board at the side of the room. “You can drive, right?”
“Sure.”
Or at least I could before, thought Johnny as he headed for the elevator.
Borya reco
gnized the security guy—Johnny Givens, from last night—as soon as he came down the stairs.
He was frowning. But his eyes widened when he saw Chelsea.
Ha! He likes her.
“I’m Johnny Givens,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll be with you for the next four hours.”
“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Borya asked playfully.
“There’s one right there. I’ll stay outside the door.”
“It was a hypothetical.” Borya looked at Chelsea. “Think he could pass the Three Kings test?”
“I’m sure he’d ace it. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Got it.”
“We’re going to go this way,” said Johnny. “I need to find the pickup truck.”
“I have my bike. I can just ride it home.”
“Is it a tandem?”
“What’s that?”
“A bicycle built for two.”
“Just one.”
“Then we’ll take the truck and put it in the back.”
“Why don’t we walk?”
“I’ll tell you what. If I’m with you later in the week, I’ll get a bike and we’ll bike together, all right? Unless you jog.”
“Jog?”
“You know, run. Like, exercise.”
“I could do that. But I’d rather bike.”
“All right.”
“You have a bike?”
“No.”
“You need one if you’re going to ride.”
“No shit.”
Borya laughed. “I know where you can get a good one.”
“Then we’ll go there the next time we work together.”
“Work?”
“I’m working. And you’re supposed to be doing your homework, right?”
“Don’t go dad on me. You were doing so well.”
“Here’s the elevator.”
None of the security guys were particularly friendly. This one, at least, seemed like he wasn’t a complete jerk.
“You have bionic legs, right?” she asked as they walked to the back hall and the entrance to the parking lot.
“They’re not bionic.”
“Can I see them?”
“Maybe later.”
“Just your legs,” she said quickly. “Not—you know.”
Johnny laughed. He stopped and pulled up his pants leg. “There.”
“It looks real.”
“That’s how they made it.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as it did at first. But, sometimes. Yes.”
“Can I touch it?” asked Borya.
“I guess.”
Borya dropped to her knee and touched the exposed calf. It didn’t quite feel real, but the skin was soft, not hard, as she’d expected.
“Do you like it better?” she asked, rising as he pulled his pants leg back down.
“Better, no. But it may be pretty cool.”
“You’re a real hero,” said Borya.
“Come on, let’s get going,” said Johnny, in what Borya knew was a pretend-tough voice. “You have to do that homework, or they’re going to be on my ass.”
81
John F. Kennedy Airport, three days later
Shoved on a plane to Moscow by the SVR in Donetsk, Tolevi was met at Domodedovo International Airport by a mousy woman holding up a sign with his name on it. He considered just walking by, but realized that was foolish; the Russians could grab him any time they wanted. The woman looked at his ear, shook her head, then walked him to a car in the terminal’s no parking area, all without a word. They drove about fifteen minutes before arriving at a clinic; patched up by an elderly doctor whose Far Eastern Russian was difficult to decipher, Tolevi emerged to find an envelope with his name on it at the receptionist’s desk. Inside was his ticket, a baggage check claim for his luggage, and a stamped visa that expired three hours after the flight boarded.
He knew better than to dawdle, let alone ask questions. His ride was gone, but a cab to the airport easily arranged. It turned out that the visa’s timing was prescient; they sat at the gate for exactly two hours and fifty-five minutes past boarding time for reasons never announced; then they spent another half hour on the tarmac due to “air traffic controller problems.”
Flying coach nonstop from Moscow to New York—if it wasn’t the worst flight Tolevi had ever taken, it certainly ranked close. The plane itself wasn’t horrible—Aeroflot used an Airbus 330 for long-distance flights—but he was stuck in a middle seat with a snorer on his right and a woman who prayed to herself the entire time she wasn’t eating.
But when he landed, he was in the States, finally.
The first order of business after collecting his bag would be to find a pay phone. He hadn’t been able to call Borya the whole time he’d been gone. She’d be worried, as would Martyak.
Assuming Borya hadn’t killed Martyak by now. A definite possibility.
“Gabor Tolevi?”
Tolevi turned to see a tall, middle-aged man in a suit standing next to the rope at the gate exit.
He looked familiar.
“You’ll come with us,” said the man, flashing an ID. “Trevor Jenkins. FBI. We met in Boston. Come along with us.”
Another man in a suit rose from a chair at the front of the gate. Tolevi spotted two more men in suits rising at the edge of the waiting area.
“I have to call my daughter,” he said.
“You can do that from the car.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“We’re going to drive you,” said Jenkins. “We’ll take care of the luggage.”
The biggest surprise was waiting in the car, actually a large SUV with three rows of seats: Yuri Johansen.
“Good evening, Gabe,” said Johansen, sitting in the first row behind the driver. “Have a good flight?”
“The flight was terrible.” Tolevi had no option but to slide next to him. “My stay was worse.”
“You didn’t get our guy,” said Johansen.
Outside the truck, Jenkins shouted to some men boarding a vehicle behind them. Another vehicle pulled up in front. It was a regular caravan.
“I’m lucky I got out with my life,” Tolevi told Johansen. “One of the Russians in charge down there decided he liked me so much he cut off part of my ear as souvenir.”
Tolevi turned his head toward his CIA handler.
“I bet that hurts.”
“Jenkins said I could call my daughter. Is he FBI, or is he with you?”
“Bureau. Use his phone when he gets in.”
“I met Dan,” said Tolevi. “If you were going to have people there, you should have had more.”
“If we had access to more,” said Johansen, “do you think we would have sent you?”
Jenkins tapped the back of the driver’s seat and they pulled out, a three-vehicle parade to Boston. He didn’t particularly like the CIA officer, Johansen, let alone the arrangement the bosses had come to, but “make the best of it” was now the clear order of the day.
National interest and all that.
They were at the precipice of a huge bust, breaking not only the back of the Russian mob in Boston and New England but also some of its connections back to Russia and the Ukraine. Even if Tolevi didn’t cooperate and the CIA chose to keep him off limits, major criminals were going down. This meant cybercrime, prostitution, drugs, cigarette and vodka smuggling.
But the big prize was the Russian intelligence service connection.
Stratowich wasn’t talking yet, but he would. It was just a matter of time. They’d already gotten information from his apartment, his phone records, even his girlfriend.
The day before he broke into Smart Metal, he’d met with Maarav Medved, a known mafya chieftain; from him he’d received instructions on how to get into Smart Metal. Twenty minutes before that meeting, which had taken place at a restaurant in downtown Boston, two members of the Russian SVR had gone into the restaurant and sat with Medved—something the FBI
knew from routine surveillance, and now a security video from a store just across the street.
How much they could make of the connection remained to be seen. The U.S. attorney had asked for a wiretap warrant on Medved; thus far the most interesting tidbit was information about which Russian prostitutes were the best in bed. But it was early days; Jenkins had no doubt they would end up with considerably more dirt, and undoubtedly have enough hard evidence to expose SVR operations. A serious win for him, even though his task group hadn’t been assigned to do that.
Getting Tolevi to play along would be useful. It was difficult, however, to judge exactly what the CIA’s attitude toward him was. They were as cagey as ever, barely admitting that they ran him, though it was obvious they had sent him to the Ukraine. He was a black marketer, flouting, if not breaking, U.S. laws on exporting goods to both Russia and the breakaway areas of Crimea and eastern Ukraine. He had connections to the mafya—Johansen insisted he wasn’t a member, though Jenkins was sure he was, even if it was a few rungs below Medved.
The one good thing about the SVR case—the CIA wouldn’t try to hound in on the glory. In fact, the Agency would stay as far away publically as possible, fearing they’d get into a tit-for-tat fight with their Russian rivals. That gave Jenkins’s bosses plenty of room to work with the locals, who of course wanted some measure of glory for having been lucky enough to be there when Jenkins’s man got Massina down.
Glory all around.
But he still didn’t have his brother’s murderer.
“I want to call my daughter,” said Tolevi.
“You’ll call her,” said Jenkins. “It’s a long ride.”
“Am I under arrest here?”
“No. Not at all.” Jenkins leaned forward. “If you want to get out, we can stop right here.”
They were on the Van Wyck Expressway; traffic was actually moving at a decent clip, unusual even for the middle of the day.
“What exactly do I owe this honor to?” said Tolevi.
“We’re all trying to cooperate,” said Jenkins. “We picked up a friend of yours, a Mr. Stratowich, who has been giving us a lot of information.”
